I first met Claude Ponsot in 1957, when I was 17 and he was 30. This was in Jamaica, New York, where Paul Bowles was born and I grew up. At the time Claude was still married to his American poetess wife Marie. Who, as it happens, also grew up in Jamaica. And has since become somewhat famous. Marie Ponsot. I even recall visiting them the day before and the day after their sixth child arrived. Marie looked her same slim self on both occasions. Nor did she know the meaning of the word 'rest.’ Whenever it was she dropped, Claude was probably out in his garage studio painting. A great lover of life, the eternal female, and good food & drink, he has always been first and foremost devoted to his art. That he is not better known, either in America or Europe, is one of the more damning indictments of the contemporary art world. And yet it bothers me much more than it does him. He just keeps on painting. Here is what he has to say about his calling:

"My intent is to stay true to my work, not compromise or shift to more accessible subjects for the sake of a sale.

“The other day I saw a little girl, maybe three years old, being interviewed on TV. When asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she said a 'lieveheersbeestje,’ a ladybug.”

In an email to Eddie from a local pen pal who had no idea that even then the Amsterdam-based American writer was deeply engrossed in researching this tiny friend to greenhouse plant growers.

The gentleman prefers not to be named. Indeed, he insists on it. Says he intends to write a book someday and doesn’t want me spilling any of his beans prematurely. Could be. Though it’s just as likely that his new wife being a rather famous personality has something to do with it. And so, by way of acceding to his request, I’ll simply refer to him as Mr. L and call his spouse Madam X. For it was at one of her legendary dinner parties that our story begins.

I was sitting one place removed from Mr. L and busily chatting with the mutual friend seated between us. Despite the advent of warmer weather still being weeks away, a ladybug ('ladybird’ in Commonwealth English, or 'lady beetle’ to scientists), a common coccinellid, suddenly landed on the back of a nearby guest’s hand. And while the tradition, in Holland and elsewhere, is to gently blow these (usually) dark-orange creatures with black spots on their wing covers away and then make a wish (with intentionally killing them bound to bring bad luck), the woman instead passed our out-of-season harbinger of spring to someone else for doing the honors.

Having watched all this, Mr. L leans over towards me and smilingly says: “I used to sell those things. Bushels of them, kilos. Made a lot of money, too.”

“You did what?” I responded, more than a trifle amazed.